


You're More Than A Superstar

by bouquetiere



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Oneshot, Songfic, brief mentions of, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouquetiere/pseuds/bouquetiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a trainwreck headed nowhere and all Louis could ever want is to love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're More Than A Superstar

**Author's Note:**

> So...I've never written Harry/Louis before, and I probably won't ever again, but I wrote this for a really, really dear friend of mine semi-after Bat For Lashes "Laura", which you can listen to here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UznHTBZIa8E. There's another "Laura" songfic floating around here which is also really good, do check it out!

If you asked Louis to describe his life in only one word, from birth up until that very moment, he’d probably say _sacrifice._

He spent so much of his 20 years giving away, watching people take from him and not knowing really how to take back. He cared too much and let people in his atmosphere too soon. And he some how never managed to stop them from dancing all over his heart, taking pieces of him with them as they left his life, one by one, right after the other.

Louis was strong, but for the wrong reasons. He was resilient, but at the expense of his expectations of people being frighteningly low. Everyone just didn’t love Louis Tomlinson as hard as Louis Tomlinson loved everyone. But that was fine. As long as people let him love them, he was happy.

That is, until someone didn’t want to be loved by him.

*~*

Tall, gangly limbs sway rhythmically to the thumping bass of some nameless dubstep tune, fuelled by the buzzing in his veins that wouldn’t yield. Had everyone else at the party not been doing something similar, it would have been rather odd and off putting, but that doesn’t stop Louis from looking on at this boy, interested. 

Chocolate falls in excess in front of his eyes, the thickest curls framing his bright face. He isn’t as old as Louis, no, but he’s old enough that it’s clear his face has only recently thinned away from puberty, though not far enough to spare it from the occasional pimple. He’s gorgeous, all sharp angles and hard parts that Louis wants to desperately have poke at his soft curves, maybe even cut him open so he can take his time fixing him up.

Zayn reappears at his side, a second cup in his hands that he gives to Louis. The drink is dark and fruity smelling, and the first sip burns his throat.

“What is this?” 

“Not sure. I made it in the kitchen,” Zayn has always been far too flippant about the things he ingests. “Drink it. You’ll feel it soon enough.”

He’s not a drinker per say, but he’s polite so he sips it anyway. The curly brunette boy cocks his head back and laughs at something a blonde boy whispers in his ear, his body not once ceasing its gyrations.

“Zee, who is that?”

Zayn’s eyes match up to the curly boy and doesn’t miss a beat before he shakes his head. “He’s trouble, Lou. You don’t want that.”

Louis keeps looking, a bit more intrigued. “He’s pretty.”

Zayn shakes his head again, grabbing Louis by the shoulder to turn him away. “Give it up Louis. He’s trouble, alright? Don’t waste your time.”

Louis lets Zayn guide him to another part of the room, but not before he manages to lock eyes with the brown haired boy, far too interested for his own good.

*~*

When Zayn and Louis go to another party 2 nights later up the road, the curly boy is there again, decidedly more sober but still just as reckless. Louis is sure this isn’t his flat, but he’s entertaining a nice crowd on his own so it might as well be. 

Louis can’t help himself from staring but everyone else is too, deeply enthralled in some story he’s animatedly telling, hair flopping around with every turn of his head.

“Louis,” Zayn chides, stepping in Louis line of sight. “I’m telling you, he’s no good. I’m not gonna say it again,” Perrie catches Zayn’s eye over Louis’ shoulder and he nods at her, his attention back to Louis. “You do what you want, but I’ve warned you.”

Louis loves Zayn, he does. For as long as he can remember them being friends, Zayn’s always been the voice of reason. And he’s never led him astray, not once… _but he’s wrong now, he’s wrong about this one._

He waits until Zayn’s gone to do God knows to Perrie before he approaches the group around this eccentric character, standing slightly on his toes to see him.

“I couldn’t believe it! So now I have a wet cat and some random bloke’s pants and a coppah staring me dead in the eye…”

Louis can’t even be arsed to realize he’s entered this theatrical event far too late. He’s just listening to the way the boy’s mouth moves; his words slow and accent strong. _Northern_ , Louis surmises, and doesn’t bother to understand the rest of the story, just listens to his voice and tries to ignore the heat curling in his belly.

The crowd disperses when the story dies down and Louis doesn’t know what to do, standing alone drink-less and friendless. He takes his phone out and starts tinkering around, drafting a text message to no one in the hopes that he seems aware of how to function in social situations.

“You look like you need a drink.”

Louis flushes crimson and looks up only enough to see long fingers curled around a cup, the drink inside as red as his face. He knows better to take a drink from a stranger, but there’s a twinkle in this curly boy’s eyes that Louis can’t deny and he takes the cup, their fingers just brushing past one another’s.

He’s so young, so sweet looking that Louis falls for it, drinks half of whatever is in his cup too quickly to even let the alcohol hurt, gives the boy a smile because he can’t stop staring at his face because he’s _beautiful_.

“’S good, right?”

Louis just nods because conventional speech has failed him spectacularly.

Boy steps into his personal space and Louis forces himself to breathe. “You’ve got a name?" 

“I uh-”

“My name is Harry. Let’s dance.”

Louis doesn’t have time to think before Harry is pulling him away and up onto the coffee table, slotting his hips right behind Louis’ arse, _too close_ for someone who doesn’t even know his name.

“Dance with me.” Harry’s breath is hot, thick, hands large on Louis’ waist. He rolls his hips forward and Louis’ mind goes blank and he’s wondering if they’re causing a scene, but there are two girls standing on the couch next to them, making out, so they could be worse.

Louis doesn’t dance ever but he is for this boy, this Harry character, letting his hands move his hips the way he wants them to. Sweat collects on Louis’ brow and his heart races; he decides right then that he is no way near drunk enough to fathom that taking a drink from a beautiful stranger and then dancing on top of a table with them is a good idea.

People take from him too much. He might as well take back some. 

Louis tosses back his cup, throat hot from the liquor and he grinds down on Harry’s lap. When Harry chuckles, breathless, and grinds right back, Louis knows he’s gotten himself into it now.

It’s the same nameless dubstep tune playing, that same one that he first saw Harry dancing to the nights before, and Louis has to laugh at the irony of his life, how he’s ended up here and now dirty dancing with a beautiful stranger to a song he’s never heard of.

They dance until Zayn pulls him off of the table what seems like an hour later, and Louis is too fucked on whatever was in that drink to really protest too much. He looks over his shoulder again and Harry is standing still on the table, biting his lip, eyes low and Louis thanks his mum for his fantastic arse, because he knows he’d be watching himself walk away, too.

*~*

Zayn doesn’t stop pulling him until they’re far out of that flat and onto the street and Louis has nearly collapsed in giggles. “Zayn, have I been naughty?”

“You’re pissed on Absinthe, Lou. I told you that boy is no good.”

Louis scoffs. “Just because he’s not good for me doesn’t mean I don’t want to suck-”

“Louis!" 

*~*

Zayn decides he wants to throw a party for once, so they clean their flat, spend 100 quid on too much alcohol and tell everyone they know to come through. 

Louis keeps a steady eye on the door the whole night like he’s willing Harry to come in. Some of the people he’s seen Harry with come in casually, and with every familiar face or floppy hairstyle Louis gets more impatient and antsy.

By the time Harry arrives it’s a quarter to 1. Louis is near obliterated drunk, trying to keep from acknowledging the fact that he isn’t even enjoying himself at his own party because of some lanky-limbed man-child that doesn’t even know his first name. 

Louis isn’t even attempting to hide the fact that he’s staring and Zayn catches him from across the room, his hand tight on Louis’ forearm.

“This is the last time I tell you this, alright? He’s no good Louis,” Louis nods, absently, watching Harry cross the room to greet a group of people. “But you’re not even bleedin’ listening to me so I just hope you have enough common sense to wear a rubber and not do it on my bed.”

Zayn lets go of his arm and Louis waves at him, his attention not once straying from Harry’s form. His skin might as well be glowing, sparkling and he’s _beautiful_.

If Zayn mutters, “All that glitters isn’t gold, Louis,” before he walks away, Louis doesn’t pay it any mind.

He’s got liquid arrogance pumping through his veins and he can’t find it within himself to care as long as Harry falls for it.

Louis isn’t even thinking as he makes his way to where Harry is standing, pushing through conversations and stepping on toes. He’s surely not thinking when he fits himself against Harry’s side, a hand on Harry’s lower back and lust in his eyes. This isn’t Louis. “Fancy to see you here.”

Harry looks down to have their eyes meet and Louis realizes for the first time how tall this boy is, how easily it would be for Harry to take control of him, hold his body down while he fucks him. Makes love to him, maybe.

Harry excuses himself from his friends and Louis moves more into his personal space and all of a sudden the air is thicker, Louis’ intent pushing at Harry’s leg.

Harry’s eyes are glassy, pupils blown like he’s been doing something worse than drinking and Louis is enthralled.

“Dance with me again.”

And their bodies sway, denim hot from friction where they’re ground together at the groin. No table, just writhing so near to sex it’s obscene, it’s so wrong and Louis wants it, wants this boy because he knows he’s bad and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I want-“

But Harry presses forward; sucking in Louis’ desires like he shot gunned them, saying everything and nothing through a nip of Louis’ bottom lip, a pass of his tongue over Louis’ teeth like they’ve been doing this for ages.

“Yes.”

And Louis would let him do it, take him in right here on the floor with everyone watching because he needs it, he needs someone to give to him for once in his life.

But instead, Harry steals Louis away to the first room he finds and kisses Louis dumb, licks every bit of rationality from Louis’ mouth like he’s ill, and the cure lies under Louis’ tongue.

Louis can do nothing but follow Zayn’s advice and makes Harry wear a condom and, they have sex on Zayn’s _floor_ , not on his bed.

*~*

Louis wakes up that next morning in his own bed with a splitting headache and Zayn standing over his body, a mix of anger and pride on his face that Louis didn’t think was possible to portray.

Heat stirs in his belly as he realizes just why Zayn might be looking like that, and despite the impending nausea and heartbeat rushing in his ears, Louis smiles.

“You are so incredibly lucky I love you.” Zayn scowls, handing him a glass of water and two paracetamol. When Louis reaches up to take them he notices a phone number and “ _I want to see you soon – H_ ” written on his left arm.

He decides right then that maybe he is really lucky.

*~*

Harry meets him at a coffee shop 2 blocks from his flat later that day.

It’s the first time Louis has ever really seen him actually sober and he looks like shit, honestly, but Louis has stars in his eyes that Harry can’t ignore when he sits across from him. They get tea and biscuits and eat in a nice silence, too hung over for too much small talk and all the while Louis’ skin is buzzing to touch Harry anywhere.

Harry drains his cup and reaches out for Louis, holds his hand and chooses to be gentle. Harry is a mess, a self-destructive tall little boy. He knows he could stop drinking, stop partying, stop _using_ but it all makes him feel invincible, let’s him understand what happiness could be without him ever having to try and find it.

So he’ll never stop.

“I’m no good for you, babe." 

Louis stares at him blankly before he shakes his head, uncaring. He’s never wanted something so much before. “That’s okay. I’m okay with that.”

“But you really shouldn’t be, Louis. You’re too good for me.”

Butterflies surge deep inside Louis’ belly. He’s never heard Harry say his name before and it sounds right in his mouth, like he should be the only one to say it, shout it, moan it right when he comes.

Louis leans across the table and kisses Harry once, twice, tentative, sweet. “Let me make that decision, okay?” Louis voice is steady even though he’s shaking inside. He doesn’t do this. This isn’t Louis. But this is what he wants.

Harry just shakes his head and kisses him back. “Don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”

*~*

Louis falls hard after that day in the coffee shop. It’s like, if Harry isn’t around then not much else matters; the sun isn’t that bright, food isn’t good, nothing feels right. 

And Harry keeps being Harry, going to parties all hours of the night and drinking himself blind, letting anything get him high, burning bridges. If it bothers Louis, Harry doesn’t know it, and Louis wouldn’t dare say anything to change it.

“I think you’re perfect, you know,” Louis traces his finger over the angles in Harry’s face. They lie in Louis’ bed, sated and sweaty and content above all and Louis just stares because Harry is beautiful, really. “Beautiful, pet.”

Harry smiles despite the pit growing in his stomach. He’s ugly inside, he knows it. He’s not pretty enough for Louis and that kills him; thinking about how much he hates himself but how much Louis likes him. Loves him, even.

A hot tear slips from Harry’s eye and Louis doesn’t bring attention to it, because some how Louis just knows but won’t say anything, won’t make it hurt any more than it does.

Harry’s eyes flutter closed, heavy with sleep and Louis’ ministrations. Another tear trickles down his cheek and Louis stops it with the pad of his thumb, kisses away the wetness until Harry is sleeping, his throat sore from tears unshed. 

“My superstar.”

*~* 

Harry begins to burn the candle on both ends and then down the middle, and at first Louis is unseeing. Love is blind, and he loves Harry. Loves him with his whole heart and Harry doesn’t want it, doesn’t think he deserves it.

Harry starts fights over nothing because he can and Louis doesn’t even bother to budge, couldn’t dream of it. He does lines on Louis’ coffee table, rolls his joints on the kitchen counter because he knows it gets Louis anxious, and Louis doesn’t stop him. He slams doors and shouts and shoves at Louis until he breaks down and lets Louis hold him through it, even though that was the thing he was trying to fight from happening in the first place. 

The push away is gradual and small, unnoticeable until Zayn starts asking about Harry because _he hasn’t been round in a week and a half, mate, did something happen?_

And Louis doesn’t notice. He can’t, he’s blind.

But he finds his chest hurting more often when he realizes he hasn’t been touched in awhile, when Harry’s kiss becomes a little too platonic and unfamiliar that Louis starts to wonder what they’re even doing here.

“Why, Harry?” Louis isn’t even sad anymore, just empty and longing. Harry is standing in front of him outside Louis’ flat and might as well be a stranger. The foot of space between them is enough to make Louis nauseous.

“I told you I was-“

“No, goddammit,” Louis’ throat thickens and he could cry, he probably is crying, but he’s past the point of caring, just wants Harry to feel something. “Why won’t you let me love you? I love you, Harry. Why don’t you want that?”

Harry goes silent, the muscles in his jaw clenching over his loss of words and lack of counterargument. There wasn’t anything he could say to have this make sense because it didn’t make sense to him. Taking from people and pushing them away is all he ever knew. It was easy to treat others like shit when you feel like shit, when you’ve been told for so long that you’re nothing, that you deserve nothing.

Louis closes the space between them and grabs Harry’s face, forces him to look him in the eye.

“I love you, Harry.”

He stands on his toes to look at Harry better, green eyes cold and stony. Louis kisses him, kisses his sentiments hard into his lips like he’s still trying to speak through the pouty layers of flesh.

Harry doesn’t kiss back.

Louis falls away, anxiety rising as he stares at this curly haired, tall child and sees a lie. This is a lie.

“You do love me, right? Do you love me, Harry?”

Silence.

Blood rushes through Louis’ ears like waves crashing over jagged rock. It’s enough to drown out his heartbeat pounding away in his empty chest and he can feel that, is almost positive you could see it on the pallor of his breast. Harry could say anything and everything and Louis wouldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t bear to hear it unless it means _something_. Something that will tell Louis that Zayn was still wrong. That this _boy_ , this _trouble_ , is gonna love him. That his beauty, his superstar is gonna let him love him and is never gonna hurt him, never, because you don’t hurt the people you love. Everyone hurts Louis, but not this boy, not his superstar.

But Louis feels hurt. It’s clawing at him from the inside and churns like bile, burns at his parts but what does it matter now? What does any of it matter when his superstar is gone?

Harry shakes his head and slowly backs away, each step echoing and too final.

“I told you I was no good.”

Panic ebbs its way into Louis’ vision until Harry walking away is nothing but a blur, a dream, a figment of his sad, broken imagination.

*~*

Louis picks up a shift at Zayn’s mother’s restaurant/pub after that day, not because he needs the money, but when he’s home he feels him _everywhere_ , in his clothes and his sheets and his hair. It’s like he’s consumed Harry whole in the time they were together and couldn’t manage to purge him, scrub his skin of the memory the boy left behind.

Louis threatens to burn the entire flat down more than once and Zayn gets rid of all the matches, keeps only one lighter on him and replaces the candles with potpourri, because he’ll be damned if he loses his flat over a manic depressive spell.

And Louis works because he needs someone to take from him again, and he needs to not have to expect anything back. So when someone says thank you when he unexpectedly brings them a cuppa, it’s soothing. He’s letting people take from him again, but in food service you have to expect nothing in return, no matter how much you give. It’s the therapy that he’s too proud to seek out.

Louis volunteers tonight to stay late and clean the tables so Zayn and his mother go home, and Louis is by himself, which is how he likes it.

He turns the radio up on Dev so it fills the empty spaces and makes himself a plate of chips just because. He’s taken to eating his feelings over the past 6 months. Harry is gone and he has a tummy now and that’s just the way life goes, it seems.

Louis is sweeping, humming along to some familiar beat when there’s a tap on the window behind him. He doesn’t turn around because it’s probably some drunk wanting a burger and it’s obvious that they’re closed for the night, it’s almost 5 am.

The knock is persistent and Louis shakes his head, annoyed. He doesn’t ask for much, just for his cleaning and alone time, and he can’t even get that.

“We’re CLOSED, you bloody pil-“

Louis turns around and his heart gets caught in his throat, and any attempts at a threat fall by the way side.

Harry stands outside, large hands pressed up against the glass, eyes wide and sad. “Please, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t let his eyes leave Harry’s as he crosses the pub to unlock the door and then Harry is in front of him for the first time in months and Louis doesn’t recognize him.

In his head, Louis always imagined being angry when he saw Harry again, ready to give him a real piece of his mind (hopefully in a public setting) as the scorned, bitter ex-boyfriend. He rehearsed it in his head enough times that he knew he could say it without breaking down or crying hysterically. It was clichéd and classic and Louis was ready to perform it, had enough hate and tears within him to make Harry Styles rue the day he hurt Louis Tomlinson.

(In retrospect, he could have replaced Harry’s name with almost everyone in his life except for Zayn, and the effect would have been similar. Louis isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.)

But all he can muster now is a dull feeling of pity at how broken Harry seems. Louis is shorter but Harry looks smaller, different. Nothing like the drug addict that broke his heart all that time ago.

“Louis, I…” Harry can’t look him in the eye anymore and Louis can feel his shame. “I’ve made such a mess of everything, I…” Harry is shaking, almost violently, and it clicks in Louis’ head that it’s not because he’s about to cry.

“How long?”

Harry makes a choked sound, something like a laugh swallowed by a sob. He’s not even crying but he couldn’t stop these tears if he wanted to. “Two days…I…God Lou, everyone hates me. Everything hurts, I can’t breathe right all the time,” His nose is running and eyes are bloodshot and Louis is bending quickly, easily. He’s never seen this Harry, this broken china doll crumbling to dust in front of him.

“I just…I can’t breathe at all without you around, Louis.”

And it’s not the ‘I love you’ that Louis wanted, but it’s all he could ask for like this, from this curly haired, long limbed, oversized child.

 _His_ curly haired, long limbed, oversized child.

“Can we dance on the tables again?”

It’s odd, really, but Dev has just played some dubstep tune and it’s their song, the one Louis still doesn’t know the name of and is too arsed to ever look up.

And it’s odder that they find a coffee table to stand on, and Louis just holds Harry, holds his broken boy as they sway to some nameless dubstep tune, that same one that he fell in love with Harry over all that time ago.

Harry just kisses Louis collarbone, mumbles over and over how sorry he is, and it slips out, quietly, just loud enough to hug Louis’ heart:

“I love you, too.”

  


End file.
